One of the few memories I have of 1986 was racing to Worlds
Record on Central Avenue to buy Metallica’s Master of Puppets
LP the day it was released. It had been almost two years since
the Bay Area bashers had given their fans anything new to
sink their rotting teeth into, and by God I will never forget
the cutting, galloping, bowel-emptying first riff of “Battery,”
how relentless it sounded, how unwavering and refreshing and
hungry, which is why St. Anger, an alleged back-to-basics
volley of musketry and malaise, piqued my curiosity.

By their own admission, the band created their new offering
simply by running tape during jam sessions, and assembling
favorable riffs into songs using ProTools editing software.
Unfortunately, it sounds like exactly thus. Metallica appear
to have struck a Burroughsian cut-up compromise between their
’80s thrash catalogue and the ’90s AOR drop-tuned swagger,
while sailing into some iffy emotional waters that just barely
seem sincere (it’s hard to feel bad for a multimillionaire
with a drinking problem). And here’s the heartbreaker: There
are a buttload of doughty, relationship-ending riffs on this
80-minute epic, but most either dump abruptly into attention-deficit
Durst-while refrains or become lost in hastily prepared reticulation,
“Purify” being the one interesting exception.

There are some other glorious moments, of course, but the
momentary majesty of “Dirty Window,” “My World” and “Sweet
Amber” is unfortunately compromised by an absolutely atrocious
snare drum, a deliberately industrial, piccolo-style drone
that ruins every song for me. They’re also back to hazing
the new guy by squelching Robert Trujillo’s bass anchor during
the most important breakdowns, only now guitarist Kirk Hammett
joins the MIA list: not a single lead to be found. This is
certainly not the same rage that created “Damage, Inc.,” which
is perhaps how it should be, but the DNA that bred this beast
experiences some very pronounced pitfalls in the process of
this natural selection. It may grow on me, and it may find
its experimental niche in the metal history books, but for
now I’m calling this one St. Elsewhere.

—Bill
Ketzer

Daniel
JohnstonThe
Early Recordings, Volume 1 (Dualtone)

This two-CD release of Daniel Johnston’s early, primitive
home recordings is—at the very least—good for illustrating
the disturbing trend of mental-illness chic that has dogged
music culture for decades. Musical obscurantists and critics
alike are drawn to tales of mental anguish, from the worship
of Brian Wilson’s nonalbum Smile to the apotheosis
of the acid-cracked (Syd Barrett, Roky Erickson, Skip Spence)
to Johnston, whose battle with chronic mental illness has
made good copy for years. But will champions of this collection
actually sit down and consistently listen to it for pleasure
as the years go by? That’s obviously a rhetorical question.

Johnston has written some enjoyable, slightly skewed pop songs,
and his major-label album and best work, 1994’s Fun (produced
by Butthole Surfer Paul Leary), showed that his music could
be strong outside the context of its “oddness.” And there’s
the rub: This collection can really only survive in the context
of Daniel’s mental illness; without that backstory/mythology,
the music is hardly remarkable. And it’s a peculiar irony
that Johnston—whose muse is drawn from such mainstream fodder
as unrequited love (OK, unhealthy obsession), Captain America
(the superhero) and the Beatles—is championed primarily by
the ultrahip cognoscenti. (And then there was that Daniel
Johnston T-Shirt that Kurt Cobain semi-famously sported.)

This collection, comprising his first two albums and roughly
rendered on cheapo equipment, is a curiosity for collectors
only; for actual listening, attention would be better paid
to Johnston’s more recent work, and not this basement-recorded
curiosity. But then again, it’s an old-fashioned notion that
tunes should be judged primarily on musical merit, and not
on compelling biography or cultural context.

—Erik
Hage

Thee
Midniters Greatest
(Thump/Universal)

From mid-’60s East Los Angeles, Thee Midniters have long been
championed as the best Latino rock band of their era. However,
their artistic triumphs are broader than that: They’re one
of the best rock bands of the era, period. Modifying the accolade
with their familial and cultural origins is simply a way of
explaining away the limited reach of their commercial success
at the time.

The 20 songs on the aptly titled collection, Greatest,step easily between garage rock, doo-wop, soul, balladry,
and even psychedelia. The band had keen instincts for powerful
radio fare as well, though few outside of Southern California
ever knew it back then. They recorded “Land of a Thousand
Dances,” but lost out in the hit parade to Cannibal &
the Headhunters, who had the benefit of being on a label with
more powerful national distribution. A similarly broad and
honestly resonant East L.A. band, Los Lobos, grew up listening
to Thee Midniters. From soulful numbers like “Dreaming Casually”
and “I Need Someone” to proto-Nuggets like “Everybody Needs
Somebody to Love” and “Never Knew I Had It So Bad,” these
are gems that young music fans would be well-served to have
on their turntables. Greatest is the first legitimate
CD collection of Thee Midniters, and it’s an essential portrait
of a great band from a period of time in America when embracing
numerous genres was rightly considered healthy.

—David
Greenberger

Various
ArtistsIt’ll
Come to You: The Songs of John Hiatt
(Vanguard)

Lyrically, John Hiatt is the master of the unadorned yet utterly
striking sentiment, making him something of a songwriting
equivalent to Hemingway (To wit: “Could have been the kiss
of my life/Could have been the death of me” or “She came on
to him like a slow-moving cold-front/His beer was warmer than
the look in her eye”). More than 50 artists have recorded
his songs over the years, and this collection culls 13 of
those takes.

The songs that work best here are the ballad-driven heart-wreckers,
such as Linda Rondstadt’s breathtaking run through (the perfect
Hiatt song) “When We Ran” or Patty Griffin’s stirring, earthy
“Take It Down,” which was recorded specifically for this collection.
Another new recording, Buddy & Julie Miller’s searing,
sleazed-out barroom romp “Paper Thin,” also is a sterling
track (“I was gonna get up off of that bar stool/Just as soon
as I could figure it out”). And Rodney Crowell’s “She Loves
the Jerk” stands as one of the best tracks despite the dated
(’80s) guitar sound and production. Nick Lowe, Willie Nelson,
Emmylou Harris, Freddy Fender and Roseanne Cash provide other
strong takes.

This otherwise great collection sags slightly under the weight
of a clutch of House of Blooze-style numbers (pitched in the
VH1-watchin’, SUV-drivin’, AOR-listenin’ direction). It’s
an unfortunate choice to exhume B.B. King’s and Eric Clapton’s
pallid “Riding With the King” (2000). And does Bonnie Raitt’s
long-overexposed “Thing Called Love” (1989) really need any
more promotion? By contrast, Buddy Guy will give the listener
chicken skin with his heartfelt, slow-grooving blues on “Feels
Like Rain.” Overall, this is a solid tribute to 30 years of
top-notch songwriting.